Working Title:
There but for Grace
by Karen Kalbacher
Author’s Note:
I’ve been working on this book on and off for about 5
years. Like most ideas it came to me while swimming in my parents’ pool with
nothing to occupy my crazy brain. I was also writing a story about a cruise
ship and the devil…God only knows when I’ll get back to that one. These 3
chapters are from the 3rd draft of the book. I have since printed a
copy to red pen, so…this is’ in progress’.
Grace features the life of an artist in denial of her
potential and a hot little photographer Harlan Sole who knows she’s crazy…for
wasting her talent.
Prologue
Plaster slid down metal framework, blending with it and becoming one solid mass. She slapped her hands down into it, forcing the white around the silver frame until indistinct shapes changed into the majestic trunk of an oak tree. The branches were twisted metal but the base had to be plaster. The closer it was to the design the better. Had to be more true to life…Perfection was her ultimate goal. The perfect garden…
The moon waxed over Grace’s head, blowing her hair out in streamers. Sweat poured down her face in streaks leaving color trails of plaster and marks like war paint down her moon bleached skin. She worked, dancing in and out of the shadows, harking to her own inner art music. Her hands knew where to move, what to touch, when to dig in. The hardening plaster bent to her will and became life. It became a perfect oak tree. Falling back, Grace stared up at it in the moonlight. Blanched of sunshine the tree rendered like the real thing, it breathed and swayed in the wind like a real tree and she knew one more piece of the puzzle was there. She felt it.
The clock struck
Chapter 1
Grace Mitchell knew sleep was
futile. She’d spent the entire night up on the roof again. The radio blared obnoxious popular music in the background of her
two-room apartment with the peeling wallpaper and the shabby chic that was her
decorating technique. Actually it was just plain shabby but a lie’s as good as
a designer in the heart of
Grace leaned out of the shower and grabbed her trusty wrench. This was not the first time this had happened and it wouldn’t be the last. She used the wrench to pound on the pipe connecting the shower head to the wall. “Mr. Leonetti! Turn my water back on! I’m taking a shower!”
“Pay…rent…then…all the water…want,” the gruff and muffled voice of Mr. Leonetti came through the wall. The water did not come back on.
Frustrated, Grace stepped out of the shower and turned on the sink. Luckily the fat landlord didn’t know how to turn off all the water in her apartment or she would never be clean. The water ran clear after a second and she dunked her soaped hair. It took longer but she ragged herself clean and headed into her bedroom.
The bedroom was littered with bags of unshaped glass and long tubes for blowing. Several of her glass creatures, creations and mistakes littered the place as well as her clothes and the small bed with her last good bra on it. And her last pair of clean panties which meant it was laundry day. Grace put on the underwear and dragged on a vintage Duran Duran shirt and a pair of men’s cutoffs. The dirty laundry was every where. She jammed it into an army bag and grabbed her jar of quarters.
The hallway of her building was bustling. “Hi Grace,” drawled Mrs. Altuna in her flowered house dress. “Thanks for fixing my oven the other day,” she dropped a few quarters in Grace’s jar. Grace didn’t know when she had become the building’s unofficial handy woman, but she knew the official one was useless and she was pretty handy thanks to her mother’s thoughts on gender roles. “You’re a doll, still seeing that nice Jewish boy?” Her voice lowered conspiratorially.
“No, Mrs. Altuna. Mark left me. I’m pretty sure it was my smelly couch that did him in,” Grace told her in the same tone. She arranged her face into some semblance of a smile. In reality…she wasn’t that happy about it. She was absolutely miserable about it. Mark had been so tall, so friendly, so...not for her apparently. Grace snorted to herself.
“Oh,” Mrs. Altuna’s eyebrows raised in surprise and…interest? A sly look crossed her smooth round features, “Than I have a nephew you might just like. He’s Italian…and a plumber.”
Grace felt her self smiling despite the Mark mention and the lack of sleep. “I could use a plumber…Nah, I’m all right. Thanks.” She waved and moved to the staircase. She was on the fifth floor and the elevator had been out for years. Opening the door she ran right into Mr. Leonetti. Ugh, too late to avoid him. Fat as ever, he was like a half done butterball turkey in a stained wife beater.
“When you gonna pay?” He demanded his voice full of mucous. “You owe one hundred thirty for the repairs plus rent.”
“What repairs? My kitchen sink still gives me more mud than water and you keep turning of my shower.”
“You want the toilet to stop next?” He threatened. “I found a whole host of new water spigots to turn off.”
“You’ll get your money…” Grace stalled. She had less than twenty in her purse back in her apartment.
He pushed his fat self up into her face which gave her enough room to side step him and head down the stairs. “I want my money, Grace. I can turn all your circuit breakers off you know,” he called after her. He laughed to himself and huffed his way up as she skittered down the stairs and away from him. God, did he have to smell like cigars and sweat all the time?
The fresh air outside was a relief. The sunlight was rough on tired eyes. Without even looking at the world around her, she headed for the coin laundry. A voice called her name. Grace looked around and spotted her best friend. “Hey Delgado!”
Primrose Delgado was sitting at an outdoor café with her sleek laptop open and a cup of high octane coffee in one hand. She was absolutely gorgeous as usual. “Grace, get your ass over here and I’ll buy you a muffin and a cuppa!”
Grace slung her bag over her shoulder and crossed the street. She hopped the little rail and sat across from her friend in one of the white painted bistro chairs. “What’s new?”
“Oh, I have a bunch of artists coming in for a show…tomorrow. I’ve got a dozen galleries clambering for that stupid ‘cars as women’ exhibit… Same shit, different day, mi amiga. And you? Laundry day?”
“What gave it away?” Grace asked as a waitress came up and she ordered a hot tea and a bagel. It would probably be the fullest meal she would have all day. “Is it my Duran Duran shirt?”
Delgado laughed, “Maybe. How’s the odd job trade? I think I can get you a few ‘help me move’ jobs this week if you need them. Or you could give me some of those glass creatures of yours to exhibit…”
“No,” Grace frowned, “Most of them are more paper weight than art…” Grace accepted her cup of tea and slathered butter on her bagel. She didn’t want to have this argument again. “I’m not an artist Delgado. Not until I prove it to myself that I’m good enough. You know what I mean.” Grace gave a meaningful look back toward the way she came and her apartment building.
“You’re crazy! Those sculptures of yours are pure gold and you just keep making them and tossing them into piles while you work on your,” Delgado made air quotes, “Project. Grace, no wonder Mark left you…You’re so focused on your project that you couldn’t even hear him when he said he wanted you to move in with him.”
“I heard him,” Grace frowned, “I heard him say everything I owned was shit and everything he had was better. I heard him call my life’s work a stupid waste of time. And I heard him say I would have to convert to marry him and his mother would still think I was a gentile.” Grace tried to laugh gracefully but it came out a little short and sad to her ears. “Two years with that guy and he never even liked me.”
“I like you. It’s why I feed you like a stray cat! You know what you need? To get over him by getting under someone else,” Delgado flashed a fifty thousand watt smile her way. “Oh, don’t make that face at me, Grace! You’re tall, you’re slim, and you’re quirky and a little off beat…”
“Thanks?”
“Guys like that! Why don’t you just leave it to me? I’ll set you up with a good lay…”
“I don’t want one of your castoffs…” Grace flashed her teeth, “you traumatize them!”
Delgado let out a loud giggle, “That’s because I’m the best!”
Giggling with her, Grace remembered
why she liked the beautiful
Delgado’s phone rang. She flipped the slim flat and thoroughly modern cell phone open. “Prim. Yeah. Oh…right…” She gave Grace a sorry stare and stepped away from the table.
Grace devoured her bagel and got a refill on the tea. It was sunny and hot. The sky was blue. Hopefully a few people had abandoned some magazines and newspapers for her to read at the Laundromat. She drummed her fingertips on the table. Relaxing, she watched people go buy in their business suits carrying briefcases. She liked to imagine where they were going and what sort of jobs they were doing. She never would have guessed from the look of Primrose Delgado that she was the head of a prestigious gallery. She looked more like a high class…millionaire’s wife. Or a high powered fashion conscious lawyer. Grace smirked when Delgado slapped her phone shut and dropped back into the seat.
“Now where were we?” Delgado beamed, “Deciding who to put under you?”
“No. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever. I can find my own men, thank you. Listen, I’m off to get my laundry done. When are we going for drinks?” Grace stood up.
“After my big show this week so…Sunday night? I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know about that side work. Promise me you won’t be unloading crates down at the docks this week.” Delgado wrinkled her pert little nose.
Grace rolled her eyes, “No way, I took ten showers and I still smell like guts. I think I’ll just hook…”
“I know people who could…” Delgado began.
“Prim, no. Come and see the roof when you get a chance. You’re going to love it.”
“I’d love it better if you got a regular job and filled out your ribs. Or at least started shacking up with a few millionaires,” Delgado frowned. “I just want you to take care of yourself.”
Grace gave her a quick hug, careful not to touch her make up which was light, natural and perfect. “Thanks for breakfast. I’ll see you soon.”
Grace wandered off to spend a lovely afternoon at the Laundromat. That night she came home to blow some glass fruits and leaves. She was using fused silica tonight. Pulling out her blow hose assembly and burner, she pulled on her eyeglasses and ignited the burner with her flint lighter. The heat was intense. She worked quickly, turning the glass to get a delicate leafy shape. She used rods to help shape the glass and blew delicate green veins into each piece. After a few minutes she’d cut the leaf free with her knife and jump to the next piece. When she had a few candy red apples and a dozen or more delicately turning leaves ranging from soft blue to rich red in her glass rest, she turned off the torch. The glow of the fire stayed in her eyes for several minutes before the light slowly died out.
The phone buzzed. She slapped it away. Unfortunately the annoying thing tipped, collapsed to the rug, and the receiver fell off its cradle. It landed in a field of yesterday’s Cheetos™. She would have to clean them up today. A tiny voice was released.
“Pick me up, Gracie.”
“Hello Delgado,” She said, refusing
to pick up the receiver. You’re just in time for my melt down. This won’t work,
Delgado. I cannot pull this off for you. In fact, I do not wish to pull this
off for you. I have Cheetos™ in my new fashionable fifteen-dollar
haircut and my beautiful two-dollar table cloth has an upturned ketchup bottle
on it, next to some damned tiny tree Mark gave me. So, it’s not happening.”
Delgado had called her last night at
“They’re not diplomats.” Delgado’s voice insisted, all cheery and annoying. “Pick me up, I hate shouting.”
“No, you can stay on the floor where you belong,” Stretching her lean-lack of food-body out next to the telephone. She could see the water soaked ceiling from her position, wedged between the coffee table and the sofa that smelled like cabbage. A night of glass blowing took a lot out of her and she wasn’t in the mood to play babysitter to a bunch of artist types. On the other hand she hated turning down Delgado but this was ridiculous. “Oh, I can’t do this.”
Wiping her dirty blonde hair back out of her eyes, Grace sighed. She was going to give in to Primrose Delgado. She always gave in to Delgado. Everyone did…She was a pain in the ass. But she was Grace’s pain in the ass.
“How many?”
“Three,” relieved, Delgado didn’t even care about shouting out answers any more. “They are artists, so you don’t have to clean or anything. Just fill them full of beer and keep them there until I can get them a hotel. You’re a lifesaver, Gracie. Just, buy some beer and for God’s sake get up off that filthy carpet.” Click. And the rest was frantic silence.
Grace got up off the floor. The vacuum cleaner had a thick layer of dust on it. Grace sighed. Unfortunately for her mood, depression didn’t run in her family. She felt fine about being used by Delgado. Shaking the ‘cleaner free of the cobwebs from the Closet of Doom; Grace stared around her. She had to plug the damned thing in, didn’t she?
Minutes later, she opened her fridge. “Ah, just as I suspected,” three beers sat next to a lump-presumably the lump had once been food…there really was no telling at this point- and a carton of milk. “Damn you, Delgado. Now, I have to shop. I hate to food shop. It is so not as much fun as a flea market.”
Grace braved the hallway and
luckily for her it was empty. It stank though and there were a few new puddles.
She walked out into another hot sunny
Grace swung her dollar store purse jauntily. She did like the freedom of not having a job and going wherever she wanted when she wanted, although she still had to earn the rent somehow. Her purse was relatively light. It was empty except for a twenty, a comb missing exactly four tines and an ancient lipstick, so it flew around at a great angle. The perfect angle for slamming into a strange guy’s face…
“Hey, whoa!”
Grace got a flash of green eyes and purse. She let her arm drop. The purse followed. Tall, sexy, tanned, brown-haired, suit-wearing, and hands raised in a defensive position, was the hottest thing Grace had seen in years. And he was talking to her.
“You could knock somebody’s eye out with that thing.” Hotness said.
Nice tenor, she thought. Offering him a bright smile, she quipped, “It’s registered as a weapon in forty-seven states.” She quipped waggling the purse semi-melodramatically.
He nodded, “I can see that I offended it by not letting it finish me off.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and his grin was nice with bright white teeth. She found herself grinning back at him.
Grace teased, “Back up and I’ll finish the job.”
“What if I just buy it coffee instead, assuage its hurt feelings?” His hands flew up to mock protect his face. Grace found humor endearing. This afternoon was looking up.
“Purses don’t drink coffee,” She warned. Guys with a sense of humor were rare in the city. Especially one who walked down the street without a cigarette in one hand…
“No, I don’t suppose they do. But maybe… You’d drink it for your purse and I could avoid a painfully and might I add, embarrassingly unmanly death?”
This guy was really getting to her. Or she was just really hard up because Grace tilted her head to one side and actually considering it. But she couldn’t resist continuing to tease him. “Look, my purse has few joys in life. So, if I do this for you, you owe me.” She flashed the innocent smile Delgado taught her. She was really feeling saucy now.
Eyebrows, not bushy but neatly tamed, shot up, “What? Not my soul or anything because I think I sold that last week to pay for a bagel with cream cheese down on third.”
Rolling her amber eyes, Grace smirked, “Your name.”
“Harlan Sole. Do I get yours in return?”
Harlan Soul? He sounded like some cheesy romance novel hunk. Grace smirked, “Huh, then you’d owe me again, wouldn’t you?”
Her watch beeped, letting her know that she was never going to get beer and the dishes done before her unwanted guests arrived unless she legged it. “Ugh, I’ve got to buy beer!” Glaring at her watch, she almost pushed past him. Harlan grabbed her, spinning her around as she tried to keep walking.
“At
Harlan was disappointed too, she could tell. Mr. Potential derailed by booze.
“We were.” Grace released herself gently, “But Prim needs beer. Now I do owe you one.” Grace walked away from Harlan. Too bad she didn’t have cards or time to make cards or money to pay for the cards because then she could give him one. She had always thought that cards were incredibly classy like an old black and white movie. Not that she minded missing coffee. She didn’t like coffee that much. But she did like Harlan.
On a whim she tossed out, “Grace Mitchell,” She grinned at him over her shoulder. “Look me up. I could be in the book.”
Chapter 2
An hour later, Grace was back in her hallway. She still had another hour to straighten up before Delgado’s charges showed up. Beer, sweating and heavy, pressed uncomfortably against Grace’s ribs. There just wasn’t enough padding in her frame. She shifted the bag to one arm and fumbled in her pocket for the keys. The hallway had been painted drab this week, which was a step up from last year’s blah, but it still smelled like old feet and cheap rum. The sooner she got inside her apartment, the better. Of course that’s why the key choose that moment to jam in the lock. Grace raised her eyes heavenward. Shaking her head in disgust, she tapped above the lock three times, gave the door a sharp kick and twisted the knob. It sprang open. Maneuvering the beer up her body into a better grip, she was tapped on the shoulder. Startled, she spun around, “BAH!” The beer slipped out of her arms and dropped to the stained mocha carpet. Thunk.
Grace stared down at the bag of beer. She panned up to a familiar chest encased in an ‘oh so’ familiar suit and hit the face with its deep green eyes. “Harlan?” A thrill of adrenaline went through her, making her heart do the embarrassingly girly pitter-patter thing. Than a chill raced up her spine, how did he know where she lived? How did he get here? Oh God, it was just like Heather on the third floor. Grace remembered the girl’s swollen face after that guy followed her home from the bar. He beat her up for not having anything good to steal in her apartment. Grace had even less than Heather, “I didn’t say come stalk me.”
Harlan’s face twisted into a grimace, “No, I…”
Grace cut him off, “Look, if the coffee was that important to you, you shoulda said something.” Inside her apartment she had mace and sharp knifes from QVC. If she could just get inside she could protect herself. Damn, too bad he was hot too! Always the good looking ones…
He reached a muscular arm-she’d normally admire-down and grabbed her bag of beer, “Grace...I got your address from…”
“Following me?” Panicking, Grace moved deep into her apartment, which was about three feet away from Harlan, the nice-guy-turned-potential-killer. “Listen, there’s some coffee in the cabinet. It’s about a hundred years old and tastes vaguely like amaretto. It’s yours. Just don’t do to me what you did to the last girl you followed home.” Grace was past the knives!
Harlan blinked. He walked past her and put the beer in her fridge. Great, now he could kill her and then have a cold one…Grace took another step back and hit the coffee table. Inching her way around it, she bumped into the sofa and took comfort in the cabbage smell. She hiccupped when a thought occurred to her. What if he killed her on the sofa and cabbage was the last thing she ever smelled? A second hysterical hiccup escaped her.
“Grace?”
“Don’t… hic… kill me okay?” Grace felt like an idiot. Killers never listen to their victims. Geeze, this guy probably followed women home all the time and killed them with their own beer. Another hiccup rocketed out of her. Why the hell did she have to hiccup every single time she got upset?
His brows came close together over his lovely killer eyes. Opening her cabinets, he rummaged through her stuff. Which she thought was rude he should kill her first before he starts the looting. He had to be looking for her knives. It was only a matter of time before he opened her silverware drawer. Harlan closed the cabinet and turned on the faucet. It protested spewing the weird rust before water escaped it in a painful wheeze. She hiccupped more in double time, thinking he was going to wash up before he killed her. Filling a cup, he walked over to her. “Drink this.”
“What did you put in it?” Knock out drops? Poison…Andy had poisoned his mother…Andy the sweet guy who lived across the hall from her. He said she wouldn’t stop bringing cats home…She did not want to die in this stupid apartment!
Harlan put the glass on the coffee table right in the permanent water ring. “Water…You just saw me.” He waved a hand at her, “Hiccups. Look, Grace…”
“I can defend myself…” Grace spat out. Not really, Grace always talked her way out of fights. The last fight she had gotten in…well she had punched the girl in the stomach and then cried because she was so upset she had hit someone. Embarrassing.
Harlan looked amused with his lip curled up slightly. Why wouldn’t he be? She’d just have to make a dash for the front door and … Harlan crossed the room and shut her front door. He faced her, “Grace, I am not stalking you.” He said it slowly, with emphasis on the not.
“Okay,” Grace faked relaxing and
picked up the glass. She liked the little flowers pasted around the edges.
That’s why she’d picked them up at that yard sale in
Harlan sat on the edge of the coffee table. It groaned under his weight as he dug something out of his pocket. “Here,” a small white card appeared in his hand. Grace took it gingerly and saw her address scrawled on it in blue ink. Flipping it over, she saw…
“Primrose L. Delgado,” She handed the card back to him and flopped down on the sofa. The last hiccup released a ton of tension from her lanky frame. She giggled with relief. “Y’know, you hear about people following you home and killing you so often, you just forget about little things like coincidences.” More laughter bubbled up out of relief.
“Your confidence in me is overwhelming.” Wryly, Harlan grabbed the water out of Grace’s hands and put it to his own lips. He took a few ginger sips, grimaced and plopped the glass back down on the table, “That is awful. I think it is poisoned.”
Still grinning, Grace pointed a finger at his chest, “I live in a big city, guy, and you in no way look like an artist.” Grace punched him lightly in the arm, noticing how muscled it was and her smile brightened seventy watts. “I feel incredibly stupid and impossibly impolite. Sorry Harlan. Forgive me?”
Harlan handed her back the glass. “Apology accepted Grace. Listen, not all artists walk around in raggedy jeans, paint spattered smocks and old tennis shoes. I’m a photographer. We get to wear suits…” His eyes rolled. She stared at him, not buying it. He relented, “Okay, I came out here to meet with museum people, so I dressed up. I do own raggedy jeans and my smock is doused in amino phenol…Feel better?”
“Live the stereotype,” Grace toasted him with the glass of water. “Okay, artist, there’s beer in the fridge. When do the other two get here?”
Harlan shrugged. He sniffed, “Why does your sofa smell like cabbage?” Grace didn’t bother to answer him. She got him a beer and they settled down to wait for the other two artists. After a few minutes of slightly companionable silence, Harlan asked, “now what?”
“Twenty Questions? I’m not sure. I thought I would have at least an hour before you arrived. I’m basically your babysitter until she decides where to put you. Don’t worry I’m sure it will be at least a three star.” Grace stood opposite him and leaned her back against her counter.
“And what would you consider your apartment?” Harlan asked innocently.
Grace shrugged, “two stars at
least. I have a working toilet and slightly running water. This is
A nice rumbling laugh escaped him. “Sounds great, so how did you meet Primrose Delgado?”
Grace smirked, “You mean: why is a rich elegant New Yorker like Delgado hanging out with a primitive, poor girl from New Jersey?” Grace winked to take the sting out of what she was saying, “She found me. I was wandering the streets…slightly homeless. She was in a hurry carrying all these boxes of files or prints or something. And behind her she was dragging this cart with more crates on it. I saw her coming but I couldn’t get out of her way fast enough. She hit me. The crates upended and I caught one in my arms like this.” Grace mimed being on the ground with her arms out. “Apparently I caught a 10th Century urn worth about twelve thousand dollars.”
“Wow,” Harlan exclaimed, “She was just carting them down the street?”
“Mm hmm, she said no one pays any attention if there’s no fanfare. She paid me exactly five dollars to help her get it to the museum safely. After that she just kept an eye out for me. She gets me most of my odd jobs. And she disapproves of whoever I date. It’s like having an older sister who can get you free drinks…”
Harlan
bobbed his head in what Grace thought was empathy, “Jerry, he’ll be here in a
bit, is staying with me. He’s not rich or useful but he does disapprove of
anyone I date. Okay I guess it’s not the same. He’s more of the English little
brother I never wanted but am now almost can tolerate.”
“Wotcher,” a cultured voice said from the door Grace and Harlan had conveniently left open. “My ears are burning.” Grace gave herself a mental pinch for leaving the door open but immediately forgave herself because she had thought her life was in danger and luckily it looked like this was Harlan’s unwanted little brother and her second guest.
Grace thought he wasn’t bad. Shorter than Harlan, with dark black curly hair, a little unruly…His eyes were a light almost calculating blue. A weird feeling went up and down her spine. But then he smiled, put out one calloused pale hand and announced himself, “Jeremiah Pembroke, sculptor, painter, lady killer…”
“Bed wetter…” Harlan added, sotto voce.
Jeremiah’s eyes darkened but his smile never faded, “Yes, thanks. I am trying to make an impression on the lady here…I see you’ve already met my roommate, Harlan. I hope he hasn’t been filling your head with all…sorts…of stories…about me.”
“Grace Mitchell, babysitter extraordinaire. I’ll get you a beer.”
Jeremiah walked into the room, thankfully closing the door behind him. Grace felt him staring at her back. She opened the fridge and grabbed him a beer. She pounded the top off on the edge of her counter, far from the crack and handed him the opened bottle, “Just make your self comfortable,” she told him.
He leaned forward against the counter, supporting himself by his elbows and looking up at her. “Oh I am.”
A snort sounded from Harlan behind her. Grace rolled her eyes at Jeremiah and he eased off. “So how long before the Ice Queen arrives,” He asked Harlan, taking a judicious pull at the beer.
“Ice Queen?” Grace tossed the bottle cap into her recycling bucket which was really just an old paint can.
The doorbell rang. Both boys sighed. “Fun’s arrived,” Jeremiah said sotto voce into his beer, exchanging a glance with Harlan.
Grace shrugged and walked the two steps to the door. The temperature dropped. “It’s chilly over here,” she said to the two smirking boys as she opened the door and saw either the palest person in the universe or the very first living, breathing ice sculpture. For several seconds, Grace stared at her. Until the Ice Queen raised one eyebrow. Grace scrambled to remember her manners, “Hi, Grace Mitchell. You must be…”
“Kayla Faust,” her voice was decidedly colder than her appearance. “I can’t imagine that I am in the right place.”
“You are,” the boys chorused.
“I’m afraid you are,” Grace smiled winningly at her, hoping to crack her perfect features into something more human. But Kayla just brushed past her and offered a chill smile to Jeremiah that was more threatening then welcoming and stood by the counter.
Harlan relaxed on her couch, long trim legs butting up against her coffee table, drinking a beer. Grace caught his eye and smiled, “You want a beer or water or…well that’s all I have to offer.”
“In
“So,” Kayla drawled, her voice loaded with boredom or sarcasm, “Prim told us she’s set us up at a four star. I guess this is supposed to be the opening act before the real rooms are ready. It’s got that air,” Kayla inclined her head, indicating the thrift store decor. She took a swig around her perfectly made up icing pink lips, “of a bad stand-up comedian.”
“That’s what I keep telling the land lord.” Grace gritted her teeth forming a vicious Cheshire cat grin and kept a death grip on the bottle opener she’d gotten in the mail three years back. “Cheeky, needs paint, has air of bad stand-up comic.”
Harlan snorted and choked on his beer.
Kayla graced him with a dirty look.
Facing Grace she temporized, tapping her beer against the battered, black,
Formica countertop. A hairline fracture running from the center to the spot
Kayla kept dropping her beer. One good thunk and it
would be the
“Why are we here, again?” Kayla mewed, sitting on top of Harlan. Grace fought the urge to be territorial, since she had just met him. She bit back a growl. The disgruntled look on Harlan’s face mollified her.
“To relax… It’s easier for some than others.” Jeremiah rolled his eyes, giving Grace an impudent smile. His dark curly hair, long angular face, and chilly blue eyes made Grace shiver on the inside-not in a bad way. Shorter than Harlan, taller than Kayla and Grace, he probably would have enjoyed having a bad stand-up comedian in the room. He practically leaked humor. Delgado had really sent a cross section of the art world to Grace’s living room.
Harlan politely shoved Kayla off his end of the couch, sending up a fresh hint of cabbage. Kayla huffed, sucking in the scent. She frowned, marring her pretty face and started chugging her beer. Harlan offered her a charming grin in apology. His eyes locked with Grace’s. A flash like lightening seared her insides. Her heart car wrecked into her ribcage…
“Knock, knock,” Primrose Delgado stepped daintily into the apartment. Her feet were clad in delicate black leather backless $400 heels. Her Hispanic skin was flawless from her strong, cellulite free legs to her round face where every inch was made-up. She’d elected to pull her gorgeous black hair into a stylish ponytail. Smoothing her beige skirt, she stunned them all senseless with her perfect teeth, flashed with just the right amount of brightness.
“Prim, thank God!” Kayla stood up, sliding her hand into Harlan’s lap for lift. She matched Delgado in her own $400 black heels, but her snowy blue dress couldn’t compare to the gorgeous silk-screened, glittery butterfly hugging Delgado’s curves. It made Kayla frumpy. It made Grace a hobo, still Grace was almost as relieved as Kayla that Prim was here…more so maybe. “Tell me you’ve got us booked at the Ritz-Carlton.”
Delgado frowned, a tragedy. Grace
rolled her eyes at the nuances of Delgado’s performance. She had just created a
pout specifically for Kayla. Grace has seen Delgado do that a hundred times at
a club or bar to score them free drinks. “I could only book one room. So, the
boys are going to the
“No she’s not.” Grace growled
“No I’m not!” Kayla whined.
Grace couldn’t imagine sleeping on her cabbage-scented couch, while Kayla tossed and turned on her grandmother’s four-poster bed with the pillows from the local urban outlet store. Plus she’d actually bought the cotton sheets new! “Prim, I don’t care about them hanging here and drinking my beer…”
Delgado put up a delicately manicured hand, “Nothing I could do, Gracie. I called all the hotels. I got one double. The boys are going to have to bunk in as it is. I can’t put Kayla in the middle of that…”
Grace searched the room for answers
but her knickknacks weren’t forthcoming. Her eyes fell on Harlan. Please.
She thought at him. Please do something, anything. I don’t want a
houseguest.
Harlan took a long, thoughtful pull off his beer, finishing it. A look passed between him and Delgado before he gentlemanly announced, “I’ll stay here.”
Grace glared at him. Hell should have opened up and swallowed him. She didn’t want anyone staying in her apartment. That included Harlan and his smug grin. She had a whole section of the wall to finish tonight. Plus there were at least a dozen more leaves that had to be blown…Not so close to finishing…
“I don’t think,” Delgado waved a hand, dismissing his offer.
“I’ll stay here,” Harlan said more forcefully in the face of both Kayla and Grace’s annoyed stares. “Kayla can share with Jeremiah. I want to take some pictures of this place. It’s great! Grace can put me up on the couch. I’ll even chip in for pizza.” Stretching out shapely legs, he sank into the sofa, content that everything had been settled.
Grace saw hours of work lost. But maybe she needed a break from the work. The roof was close enough to her goal for one night of pizza with a hot guy. She was still a red blooded American female after all. Resigned, she let them fight out the rest of the details. Harlan winked at her.
“Harlan,” Delgado protested.
“It’s perfect!” Kayla beamed, “as long as Jeremiah keeps to his own side of the bed.”
“I’m a perfect gentleman. Besides, man could get frostbite on your side of the room.” Kayla hissed. Jeremiah winked at Grace.
“So, it’s settled.” Harlan snatched up Kayla’s half finished beer and polished it off. “I’m sleeping over Gracie’s house.”
Chapter 3
An hour and all the beer later, Grace was still unsure about this whole arrangement. She was getting Harlan for all of today and all of tonight with a break in the middle for the gallery show. She had dated her last boyfriend for three months before letting him stay over. She just felt uncomfortable being so close to the roof and not being able to work on it. It made her irritable…not good company.
“Harlan,” Grace sat on the edge of her coffee table, careful not to sit on any of the permanent drink rings. She was going to try and get rid of him as tactfully as possible, and then she could finish the fountain wall tonight and spend the whole morning comparing it to her sketch. She took a deep breath and began the brush off, “I appreciate you keeping my house Kayla free but you can’t stay here… I barely know you. Just this afternoon I accused you of stalking me.”
Harlan reclined on her sofa, the picture of indolence, a small worn overnight bag between his feet. Delgado had left a little while ago and appeared minutes later to drop the bag off with a smile and a wink. Grace had a feeling Delgado had more than a little to do with Grace ending up with a strange, handsome in a stalkerish way, roommate for the night. Delgado had a voracious appetite for men and often accused Grace of being dead downstairs…even when she was dating a guy. Delgado believed in multiples, just in case one had a headache or annoyingly became attached to her.
“I know and that was a horribly misunderstanding that should make you want to desperately make it up to me. Come on Grace, where’s the trust? I was not trying to kill you earlier, not planning on doing it later…so,” He relaxed deeper into her sofa. His suit jacket was hung over the back of the couch and his arms fought against the plain white dress shirt. “I am willing to sleep naked in this place.” The corners of his mouth twitched upwards.
This was not going the way she had hoped. But the resignation she had felt earlier was back. He was definitely not going anywhere. Grace kicked at his leg with her paid less shoe, half in frustration and half in amusement. “I wouldn’t. Not entirely sure I’m the only occupant here.” That last comment at least gave him pause. Good. Let neither one of them get a good night’s sleep.
“Can I get changed? I’ve got hours until I need to be in this suit. Why don’t you take me out? I’d love a tour of where you live, Grace Mitchell. You can start by taking me to the park.” Harlan slid to his feet with animal grace, muscles rippling. The bag appeared in his hands but Grace didn’t actually see him grab it. “Bathroom?”
“Past the fake flowers on the right, place isn’t too big. My bedroom’s on the left.” Grace slapped herself in the forehead. He didn’t ask for the bedroom. She didn’t want him to see it. The bedroom was almost her studio. She didn’t want him in there looking through her weird little sculptures…plus she had the small scale garden in there. And the original garden drawing in all its crayon-y glory…Back pedaling she told him, “It’s a mess though…very not good for changing.”
“I’ll remember that,” Harlan tossed his tie at her. She caught it as he turned his back to her. “Now I know what to expect when I get in there…bras, panties all over the place, maybe some discarded lingerie…toys of an adult nature.” Unbuttoning his shirt, he disappeared into her tiny bathroom. The door closed with the wonderful screeching terror of a half drowned cat. Grace grit her teeth and raced down the hall to shut the door to her bedroom. Feeling safer, she stopped right outside the bathroom door. Imagining Harlan naked in her bathroom in front of her broken chunk of mirror did funny things to her stomach. He had such nice arms and from what she could see a nice overall physique…she wondered if he had silly tan lines and what kind of underwear he wore. Not that she would ever see him naked or want to be naked with him in her bed-bathroom. She was just going to put out for him-wait, no…put up with him for the night. No doubt about it though, Harlan would look a lot better than she did naked in her bathroom.
With a wistful sigh, Grace forced
herself away from the door and flopped down onto the sofa and kicked up more of
the cabbage-y smell, but she couldn’t stay there. Harlan was distracting her with
his nakedness or rather her imaging his nakedness. Harlan was naked the
bathroom…right now…naked. Harlan was the first male to be anywhere near her since Mark had given her the tiny tree as a parting
gift. She stared down at it. The teeny, tiny tree didn’t stare back. It was a
plant. It just sat in its itsy bitsy blue painted ceramic pot. Mark had said
their relationship was like the teensy thing, stunted and pathetic. Grace had
agreed. It was hard to disagree when you’re staring down at this miniature tree
and realizing that after four months, not only was there no love between them,
she hated him. Mark was an asshole in a $300 suit and Grace was a freak who
enjoyed living in $8 pants in
Grace heard some noises, curses and bumping around. Harlan was cursing the size of her bathroom. Well, Grace couldn’t blame him. The bathroom was the size of a shoebox. The shower barely fit her slim body inside. The shower curtain was wispy and thin to fit. The small pedestal sink was the perfect height for a kindergartner…and the toilet…let’s just say Grace wouldn’t recommend it as a seat to anyone over fifty pounds.
“This place is the size of a damned shoebox!” Harlan groused.
Grace snickered. Her imagination continued playing games with her and showed her the broad guy crashing into the shelf full of girlie soaps. Or, tripping over the edge of her college bath rug with the dye stains sprinkled all over it like muddy confetti. She crossed the room to the bathroom door and knocked lightly, “Okay in there?”
“Ow,” Like a little kid, he mumbled and grumbled to himself. The door opened. Harlan had managed to stuff his lower body into a denim casing. A pale T-shirt was over his shoulder, discarded, while he showed her his finger. “Cut myself on your mirror. You realize that’s not a mirror, it’s just a broken chunk from a mirrored window, yes?”
“Mm, Delgado stole it for me.” Grace shared, her eyes dipped to the hard muscles of his stomach. He wasn’t chiseled out. His stomach had enough fat to soften the edges of thick six pack muscles. Another grumble set his skin in motion, like a tiger moving under silk. “Ah, um…there was this construction site…Like it?”
“No,” Harlan dipped his head coquettishly, catching her eyes and dragging them away from his bare chest. “It attacked me. Look Grace, I don’t want to sound like a priss or anything, but is there anything in this apartment that’s new?”
“No,” Grace lent him a grin, “And you’re right. You do sound
like a priss. What’s wrong with old things? I like
old things. They’re better…more interesting… Have spirit, life to them. Like my
coffee table… I got it off this little old woman in
“You bought it after that?” With his eyes raised and his lip curled up, he muttered, “God, that’s foul.” Covering his head with the T-shirt, he dragged it on. “Remind me not to eat off, near or around that thing.” Grace lifted her own eyebrow in surprise at Harlan’s shirt. A small puppy was emblazoned across the front of the shirt. Grace covered her mouth, giggling. Harlan was a grown man in a puppy shirt! Harlan glanced down at himself.
Harlan sniffed in mock offense, “You buy old tables used by old people for fu- uh, sex and you make fun of Mr. Puppy?”
“Mr. Puppy?” Tears stung her eyes. Here Harlan was, all masculine, a big-shot photographer in that shirt!
“Yes,” Harlan shoved his hands in his pockets and flopped onto the edge of the table. Eyes widened and he hopped off of it, “Ew, let’s go out.” He grabbed Grace’s emaciated elbow in his meaty hand and dragged her to the front door.
In the hallway there was the usual bustle as a few neighbors fought to be the first ones down the stairs. Across the hall Mrs. Altuna had opened her door and was trying desperately to give Grace a ‘thumbs up.’ Grace rolled her eyes when Harlan gave the woman a saucy wink and made a how of holding onto her arm even as Mr. Leonetti voice sounded angrily behind Ms. Altuna. “Grace you owe me money!”
Grace grimaced and pushed past the Russian couple who lived next door to her. They cursed at her. She apologized but didn’t stop moving until they were down the stairs and out into the bright sunshine. “Whew! Dodged that bullet,” Grace told Harlan.
“You pay rent to live in that apartment?”
Grace offered him a wink, “Sometimes…”
“Not this month?”
“Not so much,” Grace told him and bit her fingernail a little worrying. “I just have to get myself out there and find a few more odd jobs. That will tale care of it. Enough about that smelly thing I call my landlord, why don’t I take you somewhere nice?”
Grace led Harlan to
Harlan snorted, catching up to her on the swing. He grabbed the chain and spun her around. The camera came up and took a shot. Grace kicked out at him. Anger raced up her body. She kicked out at him again. Harlan dodged. He backed away from her and held up the camera. “Whoa, truce!”
Grace let him pull the swing to a stop. She felt a little stupid about getting angry but who wants pictures of themselves all dirty, emaciated and broke. It wasn’t a time in her life she wanted documented. Now after she finished the garden…maybe a few tasteful shots of herself by the fountain. A nervous flutter went through her stomach. She had been working for almost her whole life on that garden from drawings to models to the real thing…what the hell was she going to do with it when she was done? What the hell was she going to do with her life when she was done? Date? Get married? Or maybe let Delgado finally win…and Grace could finally admit she was an artist to her dad instead of a respectable bum.
“So,” ignoring her future for the moment, she fished. “Have I seen any of your work?”
Harlan’s face was thoughtful. He lowered the camera. “Let’s see, I did a few ads for men’s magazines…you know, girls in sexy underwear type stuff. Plus the usual underwear and food ads, a lot of commercial stuff of mine is just hanging around the city. You’ve probably seen a few of them. We passed one of my billboards on the walk here: girl in her underwear, half hiding behind the tree?” He wrapped his hands around the swing’s chains. It kept him about a hand span from her nose. Grace hoped her breath didn’t reek of this morning’s Cheetos™. It was all she had eaten all day, that and the two beers she had had at the apartment. This was a really bad hygiene day for her.
“Commercial photographer,” She asked, baiting him. It worked. Harlan rolled his eyes. He let go of her swing and walked over to the weather beaten seesaw. He plunked himself down. Grace had the feeling he was sulking.
“No?” Grace pumped her legs, swinging gently back and forth.
“No.” Harlan’s face lost its good humor. So he didn’t like the idea of being considered commercial. Maybe he was a real artist after all and not just a good poser. Grace wondered if he had his own secret project brewing, his own secret roof top garden.
Grace skidded to a stop getting grit got into her abused sneakers. The idea of Harlan was starting to become more interesting to her. Feeling a little like an analyst, she asked, “Tell me about yourself.”
“Not until you get on the seesaw.” Harlan patted the wood. It creaked threateningly.
She crossed the gravel and settled herself on the center of the splintered plank. It protested. “Great, this thing just insulted my weight.” They shared a laugh and Grace felt she had lightened the mood enough to get her story, “Now are you going to answer my question?”
Harlan kicked off and the see-saw rose. Grace got into the motion and soon they were rocketing up and down like kids. When they had enough momentum, Harlan told her, “I’m from Philly. I grew up in a row home in the suburbs. I’ve been a photographer for the last eight years. Before that I worked in retail to put myself through school. There. Now you know all there is to know about me. What about you? What do you do?”
“That is so not answering my question! How is that knowing everything there is to know about you?” Grace slapped the wood in front of her. Several splinters exploded into the air.
Harlan didn’t say anything. He just politely waited.
“Fine! I do nothing. Wait, no, I play host to anyone and everyone Delgado misplaces. Plus I work odd jobs here and there to pay my rent… Otherwise nothing… I just sit around snacking and watching TV.” And work on my crazy secret garden.
“Liar,” Harlan stood up, smile fading.
“What?” The seesaw was imbalanced and she frantically waved her arms to stay upright. How did he know? Not that she was a liar really…except by omission. She felt herself frowning.
Harlan started walking, “you don’t have a TV in your living room.”
Grace shrugged, “I can’t afford cable and if you can’t afford cable, what’s the point? Okay, I mug children…” She followed him, “Wait, Harlan, I was kidding… I don’t do anything… Okay, I do something.”
Grace stopped. She had to give him something now. Crap. What to say? “I make things...” she blurted out.
Harlan turned around face lighting up with interest, “Sculptures? Why couldn’t you tell me that? Does Delgado sell your pieces? That would make sense right? She is your best friend. Have I seen them anywhere?”
“No,” Grace picked at the hem of her shirt. This was awkward.
“Why not? Do you only sell locally?” Harlan wasn’t getting it which was fine, sometimes Grace didn’t get it herself. But the image of her father’s disappointed face each and every time she brought him something she had made still haunted her.
“No, I don’t… Listen…” Grace did not know how to explain it. And Harlan was jumping to all the wrong conclusions.
“Oh, is it women’s shows only? Specialized fields? Naked men and penises? Because you can show me those I’m,” his voice lowered three octaves, “secure enough in my manhood to see them.”
Crossing her arms over her chest, Grace fought the urge to tear her fingernails off. She always did that in school when she was called on and had no idea what class she was in. “Harlan, I make things, not sculptures. No one’s ever seen them. Probably no one ever will, okay?” Grace walked off towards the closed water sprays and the climbing rocks. It wasn’t exactly true that no one had seen them. Delgado had. She loved them. Delgado had wanted to exhibit them and was sure they would sell… But Delgado was crazy. The mutated pieces of glass weren’t worth a second looking and Grace couldn’t bear the idea of them sitting in cold little pools of light, lonely and unwanted in some sterile gallery show. They would have failed, just like the beautiful watercolors her dad liked to leave drying in the sun.
This trip had just started to get
interesting. More interesting than Delgado had made it seem. Usually he just
drove up an hour before the show, changed in a bathroom, schmoozed
the crowd and got out before the reality shows started on ABC. This time he had
let himself be convinced to come up early and he was glad he had. Harlan
watched Grace out of the corner of his eye. She sure was a different kind of
lady. If he hadn’t crashed into her this morning, he never would have noticed
her. Harlan liked his woman thicker. Grace was one cheeseburger short of emaciation.
She wasn’t even a brunette. Harlan found blondes high maintenance, even the
bottle ones. Blondes were good for fun, but not much else but Grace had natural
blonde hair with chestnut highlights. None of the earmarks of a bottle blonde
were about her. She wasn’t plain but her shirt was dirty and worn and her shoes
were the worst he’d ever seen on a girl in
She’d stopped talking. He was facing her back and yet he was sure her eyes were intently focused on the rocks in front of her. Big slabs of granite, piled up like some giant child’s abandoned toys. The camera slid into his hands, like it always did when he saw art. Of course the 35mm disposable was nothing like his old Nikon or his new digital. The lighting wasn’t great but the subject was interesting for the first time in two years. He employed his favorite picture taking technique, “Grace?” She turned. Her hair whipped in a homemade breeze and he clicked the picture. There. Gotcha, easy as pie…
He expected to see her mouth lift into a natural laugh and kept his camera ready but she didn’t laugh. She got angry. Her eyes were blazing. She mumbled something to herself and climbed up onto the rocks. Turning to face him she yelled, “What the hell is wrong with you? I don’t want you wasting film on me, okay?” Stepping forward, her mouth opened to harangue him some more she slipped. There must be no tread at all left on her sneakers…She slid down the rocks and crashed onto an outcropping. Pain lit her face and he clicked again, instinctively capturing the moment.
“Stop it!” She pounded the flat of her hand against the rock in protest.
He interrupted the slaps by asking, “Are you okay?”
An angry line split her face into angular planes. He resisted the urge to bring up his camera and photograph her again. She was just such a natural subject. He itched to see them developed and made a mental note to send her the best one framed. Girls loved thoughtful things like that and maybe she wouldn’t be so angry with him. Maybe now was time for a lovely gentlemanly gesture.
“Can I come up and get you?” He extended a hand towards her.
“No, no thank you.” She waved him off and he liked her anymore, adding determination to his list of endearing Grace characteristics. Encircling the outcropping with her hands, she rolled over it sliding until she was depending, upside down above him. Harlan advanced until they were nose to nose. Her hands were slipping. She was going to fall any second. “Seriously, Harlan, I don’t need your hel…elp!” She landed on top of him.
The pain of her slight weight knocking him to the ground wasn’t as bad as he thought it might be. It was actually kind of pleasant. Now they were nose-to-nose and other things. Her lean body straddled his, casually. He couldn’t help noticing how nicely muscled her legs were beneath her worn jeans and her shirt was loose. The view there was more impressive than he’d hoped. “Well,” Harlan poured on the charm, “this is an interesting development.”
Apparently she didn’t like him teasing her. Grace hit his chest with the flat palm of her left hand. “That’s not funny, Harlan! This is really embarrassing. I think I split the back of my jeans open.” A delicate crimson flavored her cheekbones. Scrabbling for the camera, he tried to capture it. The flat of her hand crashed down on his chest again. “You need to stop it with the twelve dollar camera, okay? My kind doesn’t show up on film.”
Gravel was stabbing Harlan in the back where his shirt had ridden up. He ignored it. If she didn’t get off of him, he wasn’t going to move her. The position seemed even more intimate now that there was heat pooling between their bodies. Keep your mind focused Harlan boy or you will embarrass yourself in front of the lady. Keep talking, “Your kind? What is that?”
Her amber eyes rolled. Harlan couldn’t stop looking at her as if she were the greatest Photography muse ever. She had thick dark lashes, perfect for close-ups. Reaching up one hand, he ambitiously slipped it into her dark blonde hair. Airy and hard to get a grip on, it led to him cupping her face almost by accident. The contact was tingling and her skin was surprisingly soft. He kept teasing her. He was hoping to catch all of her range of emotions in one afternoon, “Is this how you make up for your purse’s evil deeds?”
“My wha-oh, no!” She rolled off of him. It was great timing as the heat between them was starting to make him a little uncomfortable in his close fitting jeans. She tugged his shirt back down over his exposed stomach as she removed her heat from him completely. Grace hopped to her feet, and slapped her hands down on to hips. “Well? Come on, get up.” She told him. Graciously, Grace extended her hand. So it was okay for her to offer him help but not vice versa. He’d have to remember that for the future.
Declining her hand, Harlan raised himself to his elbows. “Why? We going somewhere?”
“To get coffee…” She tapped her cute little foot.
Harlan got up and followed her through the park. The coffee shop wasn’t exactly a shop. It was a silver cart with rust on the wheels sitting in the center of a plush green lawn. Of course wherever he cart touched the lush green had turned a dry, sickly yellow. A greasy man of unknown ethnic origins was living inside it. It was kind of like opening a can of sardines and realizing they’re just dead fish. Harlan put his hands in his pockets, God forbid the man wanted to shake hands. This could not possibly be where Grace wanted to buy him coffee. Maybe she didn’t like him after all. Maybe this was her chance to poison him off. Grace was fishing in her attack purse for a few quarters and tossing them into a gray foam cup that had a vague history as a white cup before the war. Coffee appeared. Grace beamed, “Sugar? Milk? Cream?”
“Do I need a vaccination before I drink it?” Harlan took his cup with extreme caution. He sniffed it. It smelled okay.
Her eyes narrowed at him, “Don’t insult my coffee guy. Thanks Serge. See ya later.” She snatched her own cup and downed it black. Walking away from the cart, she didn’t wait for him to finish adding cream and sugar. Harlan nodded to Serge who was now grimacing at him. “You treat Miss Mitchell nice or I hunt you down. Skin you.” Serge growled, bearing a mouth full of perfectly straight white teeth. Harlan nodded and moved away from the guy as quickly as possible while still trying to make himself look manly. He turned to the coffee for solace. One sip of molten caffeine burned out his senses. But it was worth it. The flavor lingered and blossomed into this great nutty, chocolaty flavor that was still distinctly coffee.
“Like it?” She tossed over her shoulder as he half skipped to keep up with her.
“Yes,” Harlan exclaimed feeling filled up and satisfied in just a few sips. “I forgive you.” He told her with his best benign tone.
She stopped walking, “For what?”
“Landing on me at the park, but not for the purse attack... For that I want you to pose for me…” She would have a chance to dress up and he knew that would make her want to pose. Every one wants to look great on camera. A professional could make that happen, especially since she was brimming with natural talent.
“No,” Angry steps pulled her farther away from him. They were leaving the park and heading back to her apartment. What the hell?
Why didn’t she want her picture taken?
Harlan hated all this chasing. He was used to girls just wanting their picture taken, loving it and him. He tried to persuade her. “I already took a few candid shots, but Grace you’ve got to let me get a few good ones. You can have copies for free. I’ll even make a huge eighteen by twenty-four that you can use to replace that broken chunk of glass in your bathroom.”
~*~
Grace felt very frustrated. She should be enjoying this, the flirting and his interest…even if it was only in her picture. Grace should have thought Harlan was being very cute. He was teasing her. His green eyes were crinkled with amusement and here she was pissed at a photographer for wanting to take her picture. He didn’t know. It wasn’t his fault.
“They steal your soul.” She told him and he really couldn’t know how serious she was. Not just pictures but paintings and sculptures and all of it. Inside she felt like all those things took pieces of your soul away and left you empty. Art destroyed people.
“What?”
She spun to face him again and he clicked a picture with his little disposable. Grace wanted to snatch it out of his hands and smash it until its filmy guts were lying crushed all over the sidewalk. She told him something she has heard on National Geographic. “Native Americans believed that cameras steal pieces of your soul.” She snagged the camera and snapped a picture of him for emphasis, “until there’s nothing left but all the evil underneath the surface.”
“And,” Harlan blinked slowly once, “you’re one photo shy of Ted Bundy?”
Grace held up the camera, “Not anymore. And just think; you’ll be helpless tonight. Sleeping on my couch.”
“That smells like vegetables.” Harlan added.
“That smells like vegetables.” She agreed.
“And then what? You jump on me in the middle of the night? Because Grace, I have no problems with that scenario. Right lighting, few filters and a camera with a remote and I could have one hot shot of you… doing things to me.”